


carpe diem: or, gather ye rose(buds) as ye may

by neverwhyonlywho



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Gift Fic, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 07:37:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverwhyonlywho/pseuds/neverwhyonlywho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not that he was looking for a reason to put the moves on her--not really, anyway.</p><p>It just sort of...happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	carpe diem: or, gather ye rose(buds) as ye may

It's not that he was looking for a reason to put the moves on her--not really, anyway.

It just sort of...happened.

He has his limits--well... _had_. And they were strictly observed, distance strictly and forcefully kept. He  _knew_  better.

And then she started... _snuggling_  him.

First it was arms around his neck while he reclined in the console jumpseat, tinkering with his screwdriver. And that was nice,  _is_  nice, brilliant, even, the way she lingers and laughs and flirts with him, words coy and teasing and vibrant, her lips mere inches from his ear.

And then she got sick. Just a minor reaction to a virus on Hadeen, enough to give her sniffles and fatigue for a week or so--nothing permanent, nothing drastically harmful, but he'd given himself a hard time about it. His fault. Not careful enough. She said, though (quite matter of factly, in fact), that he could make it up to her by staying with her while she slept, and that's how he ended up in the habit of spending a significant amount of time in Rose Tyler's bed, a particular pink and yellow human wrapped snugly around him.

(And, well, if he ended up bringing her meals and generally waiting on her, that wasn't domestic at all, it was merely reparation for his carelessness.)

She got better eventually. But soon after that it was meek, sweetly-worded requests for him to come back, to help her sleep. By then he had begun to suspect a plot on her part; she'd never complained of nightmares before, and besides, half their time in her bed was spent talking, or flirting ( _always_  with the flirting, driving him  _barmy_ ), or just laying together, fingers sifting through hair and fingers stroking skin, just enjoying each other's company.

If she had a plot, he doubted it was one he was bound to mind. Besides, he could resist. Had to resist. Could not allow himself to do otherwise.

Right.

***

He learns that she loves being the little spoon.

He learns that if he breathes just so against the back of her neck, she gets goosebumps and her next intake of breath is a little less than steady.

He learns that if, in a moment of weakness, he happens to press a kiss into her hair, or onto her shoulder, she doesn't do anything but make a soft hum of happiness.

(He enjoys that, the knowing that he's off the hook. It makes him think about kissing her even in moments of not-weakness.)

***

He expects there to be some defining event that pushes him over the edge, but it isn't like that at all.

It's any old night, same as all the others, and Rose Tyler's pyjama-clad legs are tangled in his, and the TARDIS has cooled herself overnight but Rose has blankets and a big fluffy comforter and it's tucked around the both of them like a cocoon, and so together they're in a pocket of warmth, sealed off from the rest of the universe.

There's no need for the lights; there never is when Rose Tyler is right here and so is he. She's got his hand in hers, and then she's lifting it, guiding it to her cheek, her jaw. His thumb strokes the soft skin there, and he can  _feel_  her smiling, feel the way it lights up her face.

He moves to press a kiss to her forehead because he can. He needs no other reason than that, he thinks. It seems that Rose agrees; she makes a sound like a smile, and then she tilts her face to him and it's as natural as breathing, that next step, and his mouth finds hers, because where else is it supposed to be?

There's a moment of hesitation, or maybe surprise, from both of them, but then she's grinning against his closed mouth, but then her arm slips around his waist, and the only thing he can think is that this is what it feels like to be welcomed, to be invited in, and there are  _limits_ , there are  _boundaries_  he's set for himself for  _very real reasons_...but he can still deny himself while making her happy, can't he?

***

Can't he?

***

He has to.

***

...He can't.

He  _can't_.

***

In his defense, he makes a valiant effort.

Well--valiant and somewhat brief.

There's more snogging and he doesn't try to stop that, doesn't even want to. (And if that snogging happens to be performed while horizontal, well, that's extraneous detail. Consequences, he figures, are probably independent of directionality.)

He learns that he fits well between her thighs but doesn't press his luck (or his self-control)--she's happy to suggest more, does it with deep satisfied noises and little breathy noises and clutching hands and squirming up, trying to make contact, but he's got a leash to keep himself on and she seems to respect it when he doesn't take her up on her offer.

But the day comes when he does. He's nearly lost her to misguided nanogenes, to good intentions gone horribly wrong, and he doesn't miss  _that_  warning, not for one second--but it's not enough to stop him.

Everybody lives--yeah, well,  _he_  does at least, and she will for now, just for now, only for now, his Rose, his precious human girl, and maybe if he's going to lose her one way or another he should enjoy her company while she's here.

He lays her down among rumpled sheets and settles over her and she knows this is it; her eyes go dark with a look like hunger, and by the time he kisses her she's already got her hands under the shoulders of his leather jacket, trying to slough it off him.

 _You'll pay for this,_  the logical part of his brain reminds him;  _you'll pay in spades and this will hurt for lifetimes_ , but he's not going to stop.

He nips her neck and she arches up into him and when he grinds back against her for the first time, she makes a breathless noise he's never heard before, and he thinks it sounds a little like triumph.

"Was startin' to wonder if Time Lords even got hard-ons," she pants, grinning. He thrusts against her once for good measure, and this time she lifts her hips to meet him and  _oh_ , that's  _brilliant,_ that is, and it's only going to get better.

He slips his fingers under the hem of her shirt, rucks her Union Jack up over her breasts and sets his mouth on her. Her nipple is peaked already, he can see it through the thin fabric of her bra, but he roughs his tongue over it anyway just to hear her response, to feel her move beneath him.

She sounds frustrated, and he  _is_  frustrated, so he rucks her bra up too and her hand flies immediately to the back of his neck, keeping him there. Then it's her breast and his mouth, her taut nipple and his clever tongue, rubbing and flicking and caressing (he  _loves_  verbs, can think of a dozen more to describe what he's doing to her now, what he wants to do to her later), and there's just a hint of teeth, and he doesn't know whether this is a preview or the show itself anymore, can't tell if this is the teasing or the payoff.

He's impressive, though, so in a moment of clarity he decides it'll be a preview: of tonight, of tomorrow, of whatever time they have left, years or hours as it may be.

He briefly considers unbuttoning her jeans with his teeth; he thinks better of it and uses his fingers instead. It's a bit awkward, and he has to give up most of their body contact for a moment, but as soon as he's got her unclasped and got the zip down she's arching her hips, helping him shimmy them off, and he's an impatient bloke so he takes her knickers too. He settles quickly at her side after he shucks them away, not intending to miss a moment. 

He learns that she's all sensitive and tactile when she's aroused, her fingertips everywhere on him she can reach, light and encouraging. What's better still is how the same light touches delivered on her skin make her break out in gooseflesh, make her squirm and gasp.

He learns that if he licks her navel, she makes the most wonderful laugh, low and candid and surprised.

He learns, to his delight, that her curls are dark blonde.

"I was right!" he grins, and all she does is make an interrogative noise, looking immensely flustered. "'Bout these, I mean. Been wondering for months." He brushes his fingertips low over her belly, hears her breathing pause and watches as she rubs her thighs together, just slightly enough that he might miss it if he weren't...well...him. 

"That friction, right there," he begins, and wets his lips with his tongue. "That's not enough, is it?"

It's a statement more than a question, and she bites her lower lip, blushing. 

"Not even close," she breathes.

"Mind if I...?"

"Doctor, at this point I'd mind more if you  _didn't_ ," she laughs, voice strained.

His grin (he thinks) has got to be fiendish, or at least wolfish, some word encompassing hunger and want and the joy of the catch, expressing love of the hunt but knowing that what comes after is going to be better by far. In another situation he might devote a little brainpower to the search, but he can't be arsed just this second--there's talking and then there's doing, and as he settles himself between her thighs, he decides the time for talking has passed.

She stiffens when she sees how low he's settling though, low enough to press a nip to her inner thigh followed by a hard-sucking, open-mouthed kiss.

"Oh," she croaks. "Um. You don't have to--don't feel obligated to--I mean, if you want, you could just--"

He lowers his mouth to her center in reply, delivering another open-mouthed kiss--to her folds, this time, the flat of his tongue brushing the nub of her clitoris in greeting, and she makes another strangled noise he's never heard from her before.

"Don't have to, maybe," he murmurs lowly, still tasting her on his tongue. "But d'you have any arguments if I do?"

She shakes her head. lets it flop back on the pillow, and he presses her thighs apart with gentle hands, baring her to him.

"Good," he grins, and lowers his mouth again.

She's slick, and sensitive, and when he slips his tongue inside of her she arches with a hiss of breath, angles her hips to bring him deeper. He takes the hint, shifts her hips and his angle of approach and knows he's got it right when she swears under her breath.

He'd always imagined that she'd be vocal and she is, she _is_ , and it's  _delightful_ \--all of her is gorgeous and responsive, her breathing and the curving of her body and how her hand settles on his head, fingers curling when he hits a good angle, finds the right rhythm, learns her that little bit more. He's cataloguing this, storing it away for future use, but on a particularly forceful stroke of the tongue her appreciative hum turns into a groan of gratification.

"That," she growls. "That, like that, like that," a nd that's all it takes for him to forget  about his catalogue entirely. He's not one to deny Rose Tyler, he's never been, so he gives her the friction she's looking for, tongue thrusting and his hands tucking under her legs, pulling her hard to him to he can bear down on her.

She arches here, too, panting, grasping at hair he doesn't have, and for a minute he almost wishes he was back in his velvet instead of this jumper, if only because that body had a head of hair that she could really sink her fingers into.

That's a thought that makes him growl and press his hips into the mattress. Right as he does--maybe because he does--Rose shifts and squirms, panting "up, up, up," and so he slips his tongue out of her and bears down on her clit instead, stroking and teasing and flicking.

She makes a helpless noise and it's the best sound he's ever heard.

"If you--" she starts, and pauses, and he looks up long enough to lock eyes with her, and she makes that noise again. "If you keep...'m gonna..."

He hopes it's a promise instead of a warning, takes it as such and flicks his tongue over her faster, the same beat in double time. There's a moment where the only sound is her breathing, her panting coming harder and harder, her toes curling against his ribs, and he wants to say something--wants to tell her to come, command her to come for him--but he doesn't want to break the rhythm, doesn't want to take her off the edge she's on.

A dozen more beats and she's there, Rose Tyler coming against his mouth with a shout. Her back arches up off the bed, and he stays with her and works her through it, drawing it out as he can and backing off as she slowly comes down, breathing hard.

He presses a kiss to her pubic mound as she lays back, presses another to the same spot on her thigh he'd nipped earlier.

"All's well?" he asks, and she huffs a laugh.

"More than all right," she murmurs. "Except..."

"Mm?"

"Didn't even get your jumper off," she says. "Or your trousers. Or your pants."

He grins, nips her thigh again. "Didn't think it was pertinent to my interests."

She meets his eyes again, and she looks drowsy and satisfied, happily sated--but there's a heat there, too, even so.

"Maybe not, but it's pertinent to mine." Her hand over his scalp, the side of his face, is less demanding than caressing now. It's gentle but it's wanting, too, and she tugs on his earlobe when she grins. "Take your clothes off and come here."

He's never been one to deny Rose Tyler, and he's not about to start now.


End file.
